Pictures, Paintings and Porches
by dante de cervantes
Summary: After their first summer apart, someone muses about all the change that has happened in a certain Greek Goddess. Warning: Sort of femslash.


**TITLE:** Pictures, Paintings and Porches

**FANDOM:** The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

**RATING:** T

**PAIRING:** Read to find out… Femslash… )

**Disclaimer:** Don't own em. Ann Brashares does. I only own this story.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Warning you people, this is femslash. You don't have to read it, so I don't expect to get any flaming. Umm, to the guys who like this kind of stuff, hope you like this one. This is sort of after the first summer, when they are all home. Oh, and reviews are soooooo welcome!

**PICTURES, PAINTINGS and PORCHES**

**- dantedecervantes -**

She painted boats and seas and water.

She painted Greece.

She thought about _him._

Her hair was in a messy ponytail. She thought you were reading, but from the corner of your eye you could see her occasionally push loose tendrils of hair from her pale face. The Greek sun couldn't even tan her porcelain skin.

You were glad that at least some things about her stayed the same. When she arrived at the airport last week you could almost see all the invisible change inside of her. Not that it bugged you or anything. Maybe it was all new to you, too different.

To you, she was always this shy, timid, demure girl. A classic young woman who always wore skirts that never went above her knees, who was always reserved and conservative in her prim and proper blouses.

You wonder about all that as your eyes slide slyly from her white tank top that revealed her meek shoulders to her baby blue board sorts that barely covered her lower thighs.

Barefoot, painting on her porch. Her purple flip-flops by the door.

And the blue of your Chuck Taylors were starting to wear out.

How did he do that to her? How did he pull it off? Making her realize that she was more than she thought she was? When you've been trying to do that for the past sixteen years…

Beads of sweat were starting to form on your head. You quickly wipe them off with the sleeve of your Los Tacos soccer camp shirt. You read the first sentence of Chapter 4 for about eleven times already. It was about to be twelve since you steal another glance at her.

She was in the process of putting her brush and palette down. When she turned around your eyes immediately flew back to the first sentence of Chapter 4. Reading it like you just finished reading the last sentence of Chapter 3.

She calls you and you look up. Her hands had some paint marks here and there but you couldn't say the same for her tank top. It was still white. She'd always been tidy, being the only preschooler in art class to have never had paint on her clothes.

Then she asks you to come to the kitchen with her. You pull yourself off the porch bench wholeheartedly because you were thirsty and you knew that she was going to make a cool pitcher of lemonade.

Pictures of Greek sceneries and her family graced the fridge. You knew it deep in your gut that she kept that picture of _them_ in a box of memories hidden under her bed along with every courtly flower he ever gave her.

You brush those thoughts away as you hop onto the kitchen counter and watched as she rolled some lemons on a bread board. She did that so that a lot of lemon juice would come out. You recall asking your mom why she did that, feeling stupid to ask her yourself.

Here's a secret:

Lena makes the _best_ lemonade in town. Hands down.

You remember your grade-school summers with her. How long that line was in front of her lemonade stand, mostly consisting of thirsty boys who wanted to see the pretty dark-haired who made amazing lemonade.

A dollar for a glass, Kids happily paid up but frowned when they saw you walk up to her, all sweaty, holding a soccer ball. She stops attending to the line and runs inside her house to get _your_ glass.

You thought it was really clever how she made cute, customized glasses for the four of you. Yours said 'Bridget' and had little soccer balls and stars on them.

Because you were_ her_ 'Soccer Star'.

You noticed that you _do _play better when she was in the crowd, watching and cheering.

Then she'd give the line an apologetic look, pouring you a glass, free of charge, even though you insist on paying, asking your dad for a dollar everyday so you could do just that.

With all the money that you saved thanks to her, you bought a new set of paint or some really nice brushes. You'd discreetly leave them there at night, disguising them like they were already there.

You try to avoid all that mushy gift-giving. But when you come back the next day, she runs up to you and envelopes you in a big hug. In that closeness, you could smell her hair and you could tell that she was just making that day's batch of lemonade.

She takes you out of memory lane by throwing you a lemon rind to the head. She laughs that you weren't able to dodge that. You pick the rind up and throw it back at her. She, unlike you, was able to side-step it.

She sticks out her tongue, pleased with herself. Then she motions you to turn around. That meant she was going to throw in her mystery ingredient.

You cross your arms and smirk in defiance but then she places her hands on her lips, trying to look cross. And suddenly, the view outside was all you were looking at.

You chuckle softly to yourself because you _knew _it was honey. Four years ago she forgot to put the honey jar back in its place and it doesn't take a genius to figure that out.

Pretty soon, the both of you were back on the porch. You brought the pitcher and she brought the glasses. Yours and hers, with the butterflies and flowers.

Two glasses full, the both of you make two silent toasts to friendship.

_To friendship._

It was the first time that you had Lena's lemonade for the summer. It was the first time you had _her_ to your self for the summer.

You down yours empty in three big gulps, letting out a refreshed sigh afterwards. She smiles, all coy and amused and she asks you how it was in the Sahara desert and you answer that you haven't been there before you could realize that she was just joking.

She tries not to laugh at you and you start to laugh at yourself. And you were both laughing 'til it came to a point where the both of you had to pant for air.

Then she catches your eye and your heart misses a beat. A little out of breath, she says that she missed you. You almost drop your glass, so you place it carefully next to the pitcher.

You missed her too, but you couldn't say anything because the truth was... you stillmiss her because her heart was still in Greece, still with _him._

She didn't seem to be bothered by your lack of response, or it sure looked like she wasn't. Instead, she took you by the hand and dragged you to her painting. You saw the moon and the stars reflected in the sea and the centerpiece of her masterpiece was a lone boat floating in the middle of all those different hues of blue paint.

She tells you that was how it was when they first kissed, when he said that he saw _everything_ in her. And you wonder how in the hell he got away with that. Maybe, because it was true, that you were like him, that when you looked at her, you saw everything too. But with all the nerve you were credited infamously to have, you couldn't say that to her.

And now you were here, watching her sign it with the red brush you gave her. Then you lost it. You felt your heart shatter in your chest and your knees were almost letting up. You pick your glass up with clumsy hands and headed for the kitchen sink.

When you get back out again, she looks at you, tragic and confused. Quickly thanking her, you say that you had to go. And you walk down the steps that you always used to jump because it was fun.

You never look back so she couldn't see the saline that was starting to seep out.

- end -

**You guys want a sequel?**


End file.
